


Broken Glass

by iridescentglow



Category: Bandom, Brand New, Straylight Run
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-11-10
Updated: 2004-11-10
Packaged: 2017-12-23 14:13:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iridescentglow/pseuds/iridescentglow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John arrived as Jesse hit the halfway mark on the bottle of Southern Comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based on the content of 'Seventy Times 7'.

Jesse didn't believe in metaphors in life, or shit like that. Metaphors were fine for songs—lyrics and poetry that he scrawled up John's forearm in black magic marker; spiders and butterflies on his elbow, and then the second verse written across his bicep. But in real life, Jesse couldn't give a flying fuck if sitting beneath an overpass drinking cheap liquor in any way _reflected_ or _expounded_ his mental state.

He swallowed hard, ignoring the burn of the whiskey. It had always tasted better with John. The ground hadn't felt so fucking _hard_ when he was with John. The noise from the freeway had faded unobtrusively as their combined strength filled the air right up to the concrete bridge way above. Jesse had felt fearless and unbreakable; artistic and wonderfully misunderstood.

Now he just felt cold and numb. And it turned out that John understood him all too fucking well.

 

John arrived as Jesse hit the halfway mark on the bottle of Southern Comfort. He weaved along the dusty path in a slow uneven line, treading lightly in worn sneakers -- as if tact could do him any favours _now._ His thumbs were hooked through his belt loops, and his jeans hung too low on his hips, revealing the pale outline of his pelvis. He was wearing the same shirt he'd had on last night. Fucking _bastard._

John halted an arm's length away from where Jesse sat. He eyed the bottle nervously and produced a half-hearted smile.

"You're wasted enough that you won't be able to beat me up, right?" he joked. The comment deflated under Jesse's violet glare.

"I could beat you into tiny pieces of blood and _shit_ right this second," Jesse hissed. He waited for John to recoil, but he merely frowned and rubbed at his forearm.

Vicious fantasies slanted abruptly through Jesse's mind as he imagined smashing the bottle against John's throat, or pushing shards of glass into his abdomen, painting his face bright with blood. He remembered covering John's mouth with his hand, fingers pushing against his tongue; John gagging and choking and coming harder than ever before.

"You gonna forgive her?" John (the real John, the John whose dick wasn't clamped in Jesse's hand) was saying. He yanked awkwardly at his jeans, and Jesse remembered trailing his tongue passed their waistband. "I mean," he amended, "I know you're not gonna forgive _me_ , but she's pretty innocent in all this."

Jesse caught the implication and smiled sharply. "Yeah, it's us who are fucked up."

"I didn't mean…" John stumbled.

"Yeah. You did. How fucked up is it that I don't even _care_ that my girlfriend cheated on me?"

"You care," John said softly, ambiguously. His eyes were round and sad; pleading for more than just forgiveness.

Jesse climbed unsteadily to his feet. The steady stream of cars overhead rattled like a poorly played drum solo. He swiped clumsily at John, grabbing hair and grazing skin—not gently, but with none of the malice of his morbid fantasies. He buried his fingers deeper against John's scalp, trapping him still. 

"I saw the way you looked at her." Jesse was murmuring, his voice low and blank. "I knew it then. Your eyes all over her, stripping away the clothes, stripping away _me_. I bet she screamed. I bet she made a big deal, about what a big man you are-"

Jesse closed the distance between them, kissing John with sloppy disregard. His anger burned fierce and strong; building with perverse gratification as John began to kiss him back. Jesse's fingernails razored down the front of John's t-shirt; he wanted to rip it away, rip it into tiny pieces.

"I didn't come here for this," John mumbled, without pulling away. His expression, blurred by alcohol and closeness, still seemed glazed and sad to Jesse.

"What else is there?" Jesse still felt numb, and there was no warmth to be found from the sensation of his body pressed against John's, only quick, fleeting _heat_.

He was aware, only vaguely, that his movements were ungainly; that the alcohol had made him stupid. (Not fearless anymore; just really fucking _stupid_.) John was looking down at the ground now, signalling his non-compliance even as he unbuttoned his jeans. The question, of course, was whether sucking his best friend's cock would make either of them feel better?

Jesse remembered the first time; the first spark of shock, filtering slowly into a current of giddy wantonness. Dirt in the palms of his hands, pushing up inside their clothes, finding its way into his mouth, so that when he spat afterwards, it was the taste of gravel and sand.

John's jeans dropped, and Jesse walked away.


End file.
